On the road

Paris appears infinite when seen in passing through these scratched plastic windows, its withering suburbs look nothing like Siberian wilderness but nevertheless I come to think of my parents. Did he rest his heavy head against her shoulder the way Henry does now, peaceful like a child? He sleeps while I scribble down incoherent thoughts on a piece of paper, one of the words keeps coming back as if tainted by a nightmare: magnolia.

Outside, the landscape dissolves, slower than autumn rains but with the same merciless dedication. He wakes up, wiping the worried dreams from his emerald eyes. "What were you writing?" he asks but halts me before I get the chance to reply. "Never mind. You'll tell me when you're ready."

We're closer to the ocean now, I can feel it.